No time to dream
by kimmiesjoy
Summary: It's his wedding shirt she wears, soft, white and no longer crisp. Post The Time Of Our Lives. For Adriana.


**A/N:** written for Adriana ( AAR1806) . My deepest sympathies are with you in this difficult time.

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><p>When she reappears in the doorway of their bedroom, his breath catches in the depths of his chest in the same way it did when she appeared at the end of their hurried aisle, arm in arm with her father.<p>

She's bare now, save for the white shirt that she claimed from him, stole away from it's tangled home, somewhere at the foot of his - giant beach house therefore appropriately sized no matter what Kate says - bed. It's his wedding shirt she wears, soft, white and no longer crisp, one button pinched closed at her navel to stop the sides flapping, and about a million memories caught up in the ease of her smile.

His breath catches and how does she have grace and fortitude and use of her legs after round one and - he smiles - round two and that little segue that was probably worth at least a quarter to whoever counts these damn things. How is she mobile at all when he's still marveling at the ability to wiggle his toes?

How?

She's all grace and beauty and intelligently walking in a straight line, happy with that devious little smile that always gives her away when she knows what he's thinki-

"Mmmhmm." She smiles, plate in one hand and a bottle and glasses balanced precariously under the curl of her elbow.

"What did you find?" He asks eagerly, content to let her forage for them.

Castle moves to slide off the bed, but Kate levels him with a look, "Freeze." She smiles when he grins, raising his hands, game for, well, just about anything with her in the bedroom and if she wants to play naughty detective he's all for it.

"Sit down, I'm balanced and if you touch things, I'll drop something."

"I'm hoping if I touch things you'll drop that shirt." He mumbles, because he always touches things, and she laughs, sighing out this long exaggeration of annoyance that she really has to force. She's a bit completely and utterly in love with him, giddy, silly and prone to letting him get away with things. Not that he feels like trying, he's right there with her. Warm with it. Lost in their unpoppable bubble.

Oh, she said that once. Bubbles don't pop if you're in them with the right people. It's strange the last few days, all these things she said to him over the years have been darting through his mind, little segments of their history wound up in kisses and snagged fingertips, glances across the room.

"Castle?"

His eyes dart up and she's smiling down, a champagne flute held out at the very tips of her fingers waiting for him to take it.

"Sorry." He scrambles up and reaches not for the glass but for her, bringing her into his body, fingers sliding the length of her arm until they slip beyond the flap of white cotton at her hip, curling low at the small of her back.

She comes easy and slow, setting down the glass on the makeshift picnic table they've got going at the foot of the bed. She grins when he flicks open the single button between them, laughs when he quirks his eyebrow and casts his eyes over her naked skin. She's warm in his arms, and soft, tender in her touches as she finds his face and strokes one lone digit the length of jaw, stopping at his lips.

"Are you tired?" She hums, "Still haven't slept."

"I don't want to sleep." Castle replies honestly, dismissing instantly the catnapped doze between round one and two, mainly because she woke him by curling her fingers in places and getting her own back for all that touching.

He hums at the memory, and she laughs, fingers dropping from his shoulders to flirt with the skin over his ribs, lower to his hip and back up again.

"I haven't worn you out yet?" She sighs, sarcasm and delight and the need to work a little harder all there in her tone.

He's on his knee at the edge of the bed and she's standing, still semi clothed and this will not do at all. It's their wedding night after all, their honeymoon of sorts. She needs to be in the bed with him, under and over and laid out beside him. Naked at the very least.

Castle tugs her closer, his wife, no time to dream and while away the hours when his wide palms spread hotly on the coolness of her thigh drawing her body closer to his own. His mouth catches at the pulse in her throat, follows the rush of heat to her neck and pulls her leg until she's half kneeling on the bed with him.

"Not tired, Mrs. Castle," he mumbles into the soft shell of her ear, biting at the lobe and the sapphire droplet half hidden by her tumbled (well bounced in the bed) mess of hair. "I'm not missing a second of this day with you, Kate." His fingers flare at her hip, stroke low over her belly and trace her navel, sliding lower, lower, lower til she moans long and deep.

"Mmmokay."

She smiles when his touch vibrates through her, but there's no gasp of surprise, or shock inhalation. Kate falls into him, with him and sighs happily as her husband lowers her to the bed, intimate knowledge in their eyes, both aware of what they want from this night.

No sleep.

And the sweet, sated press of the others skin to their own.


End file.
